Untitled
by Tinalia
Summary: Lincoln saw Mahone’s body, the blood, what looked like a bucket of brain mass blown across the ground and Michael huddled in the corner of the room, unmoving, silent, holding onto Sucre...[MichaelSucreish]


**Fandom:** Prison Break

**Pairing:** Michael/Sucre

**Disclaimer:** What's FOX's is FOX's and what's mine is mine. Which is nothing.

**Summary:** Lincoln saw Mahone's body, the blood, what looked like a bucket of brain mass blown across the ground and Michael huddled in the corner of the room, unmoving, silent, holding onto Sucre.

"There's nowhere to run, Scofield," Mahone spoke, with a hint of relief that Michael noticed clear as day, "It's finally over."

"It doesn't matter," Michael said, quietly and firmly, enough to send a fearful shiver down the agents back. Here was the mastermind of the world's biggest prison escape, in front of him; a gun trained in the general direction of his face and not an inkling of anything but total confidence in his eyes.

Alex's heart pounded in a certain way, almost as if it knew he had missed something that the scene playing out before him wasn't how it seemed.

"Lincoln's miles from here," Michael continued, "You'll never find him, and by the time you do, everything will be out in public for everyone to see. He'll be free…and you'll never touch him."

"But I'm pointing a gun at you, Michael," Alex spoke, trying to swagger his way into some of Michael's confidence, "I'm going to kill you…you'll never see your brother again. Doesn't that hurt to know?"

"Lincoln's safe," Michael replied resolutely, chin held high, hands braced against the wall behind him, "Mission accomplished."

Alex scoffed, and Michael smirked, a strange glint in his eye.

"Don't you see, Alex? You can't hurt him, _ever_, so you can't hurt me."

Still stunned at Michael's lack of care for his own life, and trying desperately not to admire it, Alex's hands trembled, index finger vibrating against the trigger. He wanted to wipe that look off of Michael's face for good, finally get one up on the genius wearing the body of the man before him.

Countless days and nights were dedicated to learning every crack, every notch, nut, bolt, screw, power line in the machine that is Michael Scofield's mind. He could pull the trigger, end the man's life right now, but Michael would still win.

Smiling at the trance he seemed to have put the FBI Agent in, Michael knew what the man was thinking, and took pride in knowing Alex Mahone would get nothing of worth from him. His job was done whether they liked it or not, his life's purpose finally fulfilled. He was done. Finished.

It was a breath of relief to know he was finally going to get to rest.

But again some calculations were forgotten in the mix, as even Michael didn't see it coming.

Sucre.

Running and screaming at him without a second thought as soon as his eyes locked on the gun in Mahone's hand, throwing his body in front of Michael's and throwing them both to their butts against the wall.

"Stay back!" Sucre yelled, throwing a hand up at Mahone and wrapping the other back behind him and around Michael, as if the arm would add some extra protection.

"No-------!"

"I said stay back! He's done nothing!"

"------Sucre, stop!"

"He was only tryin' to save his brother! They're both innocent!"

"Sucre!!"

"You don't know the truth! You're workin' on the wrong side!!"

"Fernando, _stop_!"

"It doesn't matter what side I'm on," Alex spoke, trembling in anticipation. His opportunity to win in the battle against Michael had seemingly dropped right into his hands. He watched with a child-like glee rising inside him as Michael Scofield and Fernando Sucre scrambled in desperation to protect the other. They both gasped, groaned as they both pulled on limbs, fighting to change positions.

Sucre wanted to protect the man in his arms, as he had so much to live for – a future with his brother, nephew…Sara, the doctor lady – a future Sucre wanted to make reachable for his beloved best friend, no matter the pain it caused in knowing he, _himself_, couldn't be his best friend's future.

And then there was Michael, beside himself with panic when he realised Sucre was too strong, too stubborn to move. His job was done, Lincoln would be free, as would LJ. Sara had abandoned him, too caught up in the hurt he'd caused her to even allow forgiveness to be an option…but Sucre, he'd said he'd blown his chance with Maricruz, but Michael knew first-hand that Sucre had the gift of persuasion…

The times when Michael had tried so hard to be unreachable, cut-off, machine like would always be undone when Sucre goofed around, smiled, called him '_papi_'…when his eyes shined in that adoring, protective, caring way that Michael was completely undone by…he always had no choice but to join in, let his guard down.

Whenever he could feel Sucre nearby, he felt the safest he'd ever been, save only for his brother's arms and the flourish of calm he'd get when waking up to carefully folded origami cranes next to his bed.

And as Michael took a moment to gaze up at Mahone, he immediately knew he'd shown too much to him, let him have a piece of the puzzle that could destroy him.

He'd found the gear in Michael's system that would ultimately break him.

"Alex, listen to me…"

"This ends now."

"No! Alex! You want me! You want _me_!" Michael shrieked, finally pressing his friend back against the wall and laying his back to Sucre's front, spreading his chest as a makeshift shield. The relief he felt was short-lived.

Michael blinked, his body leaping at the ear-blowing noise of a gunshot echoing around the small concrete room.

As his lashes separated, heavy, slow and he looked up, seeing the smoke of the after shot rising from the end of Mahone's pistol slowly, too slowly…his heart went silent.

His ears would have been ringing had he been paying much attention, but he was too transfixed on the expression fleeting across Mahone's face.

Triumph.

"I don't care whether you live or die, Michael Scofield," Mahone said slowly and deliberately, smirking, "I won."

Michael shifted against Sucre, feeling the warmth and taking comfort in it.

"I thought you FBI Agents were only crap shooters in the movies," Michael spat.

"Oh, I didn't miss…" Alex said, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face as he witnessed for the first time that the mighty Michael Scofield wasn't as confident and pulled together as he pretended he was. Lowering his gun to his side and dropping it to the ground, he watched the scene unravel.

"Sucre?" Michael asked, eyes still on Mahone, "Talk to me."

Nothing.

Michael glanced over his shoulder into Sucre's eyes, "Fernan…"

His gaze caught on the perfect bullet wound in Sucre's brow, then followed the slow trail of blood falling down the side of his nose like a crystalline tear.

But Sucre's eyes, the eyes that always said a million things at once; a million things that Michael always caught, understood, and sent back – they were blank.

"Fernando…" Michael whispered, immediately turning to kneel before his friend as he put a hand to Sucre's heart and attempted to still the quiver in his voice, "_Fernando_."

Alex remained where he stood, the enjoyment of his victory slowly wearing off as he was coming to grips with the fact he had just shot a man dead for shits and giggles. It wasn't in self-defence; both men were unarmed, harmless, with only legs to run as weapons, and they'd been crouching together, huddling, like a parent trying to protect their child. Alex Mahone began to feel very wrong.

"Ferna-----Fer_nando_!" Michael yelled. He was losing it now, gripping his best friend by the shoulders and giving him a shake, "Sucre! _Sucre_! No Sucre!"

Michael's lower lip began to curl and his throat started to sting as he shook Sucre a little harder, moved his hands around his neck and trying to feel for a pulse. An agonized sob burst from Michael's mouth as he felt for a pulse with his other hand, unable to find it before.

Placing his hands on either side of Sucre's face and gazing into his eyes, Michael begged Sucre to talk to him, to do anything, to show him a sign that he was only dreaming.

He was gone.

"…Papi?" Michael asked, his voice a broken whisper and his eyes on the brink of overflowing.

He waited, counted down in his head.

5…4…3…2…1…

No change.

Michael breathed heavily, his face merging to one of revenge as his mind calculated his surroundings, got to its feet, rebooted the system and with a violent and swift movement, he leapt back and threw his fist at Mahone's face, landing it hard on his right cheekbone.

He could hear the crack as his knuckle broke, right down to the metacarpal and the sound of Mahone's body landing heavily and unexpectedly on the cement floor.

Mind racing and pain not even registering, Michael grabbed Mahone's gun from the ground and stood over him, unrelenting as he unloaded the remainder of the magazine into Mahone's face.

Six bullets before the click of the empty barrel sounded.

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click…click…click.

Click.

Michael looked down at the mess he'd made, and throwing the gun to the side of the room carelessly, he walked back to Sucre, where he eased his way behind him, one knee up and the other along the ground as he pulled Sucre into his arms and held him, gently moving Sucre's head beneath his chin.

Lincoln found him the same way twenty-three minutes later, having decided to directly ignore Michael's order to flee. Apparently not soon enough.

As he stepped into one of the many rooms in the basement of the abandoned warehouse, Lincoln saw Mahone's body, the blood, what looked like a bucket of brain mass blown across the ground and Michael huddled in the corner of the room, unmoving, silent, holding onto Sucre.

It took a moment for Lincoln to realise his brother was holding the lifeless body of his best friend, having finally spotted the bullet wound in Sucre's head.

Lincoln's shoulders fell as he released a pained sigh, slowly stepping forward to get to his brother.

Crouching down beside him, he touched the back of his fingers to Michael's cheek, his hand immediately moistening with the tears that had been shed in his absence.

Calling his name, Lincoln began examining his brother for damage. No scrapes, cuts, bruises. The sight of Michael's swollen knuckles caught his attention. But the only thing on his brother that brought some worry was the evidence of tears, _everywhere_, down Michael's arms, down his face, along Sucre's face and neck, all leading to wet patches on both men's shirts.

Lincoln gazed sadly upon his brother, seeing the life gone from his eyes as well as the man in his arms.

"Michael?" Lincoln called softly, wiping away more tears as they came, "Michael, we gotta go."

In all honesty, Lincoln was barely holding it together. To see that his brother had come so undone, it scared him. He wasn't good in these situations; he never knew what to do. He knew how to protect, how to fight, but not how to salvage what was left.

Michael spoke soft, nudging closer to Sucre and tightening his arms around him, "He was always saying he's not good on his own…"

"I know…"

"I can't leave him," Michael whispered, pressing his lips to the side of his friend's head.

"C'mon Mike----"

"He wouldn't leave me…Not even when I told him to."

Lincoln sighed, "We have to put him to rest."

It was then that Michael glanced up at his brother, tears still shining in his eyes and sitting on the edge, on the verge of spilling over.

Lincoln looked over at Sucre and placed a hand on the man's unmoving chest, "He did right by us, we're gonna do the same for him."

So again, Michael held his best friend to him in the back of the car, meeting his brother's watching gaze in the rear view mirror every so often as they drove to a spot; one that Sucre had insisted they stretch their legs at when their travels first took them there three months earlier.

It was miles of country road away from anything resembling a person; a large sunlit field of grass stretching out, with one large oak tree smack in the middle, nearly three yards from the roadside.

Lincoln pulled the car in and drove to that tree.

It would be Sucre's resting place.

When the time came to lay Sucre down for the last time, Michael buried his fingers in Sucre's shirt, glaring at Lincoln like he was an enemy, and told him to 'wait'. Lincoln placed his shovel against the tree and did as he was told.

Michael stroked his thumbs along Sucre's temples, taking comfort in the way Sucre's face seemed to be smiling, as if he were having sweet dreams in a place where he was warm and loved.

He swore he could hear Sucre's voice in his head.

_It's okay, Papi…let me go..._

Michael whimpered and leaned over him, pressing a gentle kiss to the man's cheek, sitting back with a sniffle.

"I'll find you again," Michael whispered, bringing tears to Lincoln's eyes when he overheard what was supposed to be a very private moment, "One day, I'll find you again, I swear it…"

With that, Michael shifted away, resting his back against the side of the car and pulling his knees to his chest as Lincoln buried his best friend, unable to bear the thought of doing it himself.

Lincoln went on, shovelling dirt onto the sheet in the ground, wincing every time the dirt dropped and wondering if he was hurting him at all. Michael wept, groaning and hiccupping with a fist to his lips and tears on his face, almost choking on the cries as they erupted from his throat.

When Lincoln was finished, he sat beside the grave, legs folded beneath him as he worked at tying a couple of sticks together to form a cross. Michael watched curiously when Lincoln stabbed the cross into the dirt, pulling and patting the dirt around the base to make it sturdier, and frowned when he pulled something from his pocket and forcibly threaded a piece of wire through it.

Michael stood when Lincoln returned to his brother, placing a gentle hand on Michael's arm.

"Time to go," Lincoln said, "You ready?"

Michael looked to his brother, tears long gone and stone now in their place, "As ever. Let's end this."

But the stone fell and Michael's face softened when he caught a glimpse of what Lincoln had placed near Sucre's grave.

Lincoln held Michael's elbows, heart breaking at the mess Michael had become, "He's family, Mike. We look out for our own."

Michael slid his arms around his neck, dropping his chin to his shoulder, "He would have liked knowing that."

Lincoln held his brother in a tight embrace, "He knew, Mike. He knew."

Michael nodded, and Lincoln asked, "You okay?"

"No, but he wanted it done," Michael replied, pulling himself from his brother, "So we'll get it done."

As Lincoln got back into the driver's seat, Michael paused to look back, eyes saying their final goodbye before he slid into the car.

And as the car drove away in the distance, a paper origami crane hung above a silent grave, signalling a dearly loved brother had been buried there.

_Tinalia © December 2006_


End file.
